


3 a.m., Thursday morning

by penumbra (Taro_Tea)



Series: fingers still outstretched [1]
Category: Cobra Kai (Web Series), Karate Kid (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bisexual Daniel LaRusso, Caretaking, Closeted Johnny Lawrence, Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Emotionally Repressed Duo, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Nudity, Past Injury, Post-Season/Series 01, Trauma, Vulnerability
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2020-12-09
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27966119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taro_Tea/pseuds/penumbra
Summary: Obviously, the last thing Johnny Lawrence would ever do is what tells him to, whisper-yelling from his patio in a bathrobe and boxers.For one, to get away from the edge of the pool where he stumbled at least five times before finally tripping, phone in one hand and a half-empty beer bottle in the other - being waved around in time with his drunken rambling. For another, getting off his damn property. And now this asshole can’t even clamber his sorry ass out of a pool, floundering and spitting out water.Or; Daniel unexpectedly (or predictably) ends up with another person to take care of, even just for one early morning. And Johnny's surprisingly forthcoming when he's piss-drunk.
Relationships: Daniel LaRusso/Johnny Lawrence
Series: fingers still outstretched [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2048207
Comments: 50
Kudos: 168





	3 a.m., Thursday morning

**Author's Note:**

> AKA: if Johnny’s reaction to the end of Season one was to get roaring drunk. And wind up in someone’s pool that he only narrowly avoided before.

“I have _never_ met someone as goddamn stupid as you,” he hisses. Christ, he’s furious enough to have a vein to start throbbing right in the centre of his forehead, just like his own mother at her most wrathful. “It’s three in the morning, you moron! Some of us sleep! And have _families.”_

Johnny makes a garbled noise over his own splashing, and his head dips back under.

“Stop screwing around and get out of my pool, asshole!”

Obviously, the last thing Johnny Lawrence would ever do is what _he_ tells him to, whisper-yelling from his patio in a bathrobe and boxers. For one, to get away from the edge of the pool where he stumbled at _least_ five times before finally tripping, phone in one hand and a half-empty beer bottle in the other being waved around in time with his drunken rambling. For another, getting off his damn property. And now this asshole can’t even clamber his sorry ass out of a pool, floundering and spitting out water. _Hopefully_ just water. 

“This is your damn problem, Johnny! You just barge around doing whatever you want, crashing through other people’s lives, fucking it all up because you don’t _care._ You think you’re still some high school popular kid who’s owed everything, and everyone’ll bow over for you, but that’s not - how - life - works! Now get the _fuck_ off my property, or I’m calling the police this time!” Daniel takes a second to breathe - god, should whisper-shouting take this much out of him? Maybe it’s just Johnny-fucking-Lawrence that wears him out like this with his stupid face and damn dojo, constantly making _noise_ in his life, prancing around, defacing and demanding and -

It occurs to him that Johnny hasn’t exactly been arguing back like he’s wont to. Or making much noise at all, actually. God, wouldn’t that be a blessing; for Johnny to finally shut up and listen for a damn minute -

Wait. 

“Oh, _shit._ ”

The bathrobe hits the patio heavily - his phone had better not have been in the pocket - and Daniel launches himself into the pool after his drowning nemesis without a whole lot of decorum or grace. Just plain, gut-dropping panic. The water isn’t cold, not after the heat of the day, but he sucks in a sharp breath as he dives under and kicks closer to Lawrence.

The whole world plunges back into silence when his head dips under, swimming strong and forcing his eyes open against the abrasion of chlorine. Opening them gives him wavering pale light, rippling out across the wide teal tiles and smooth, polished sides. Some gold, filtering down through the plume of bubbles from his dive. It's almost worth admiring, if he weren't pushing straight through, squinting at Johnny through the blur and sting.

Of _course_ Johnny had to fall in the deeper end the contractors had insisted was needed for diving, moving sluggishly at nine feet under. Typical. 

It’s the adrenaline, probably, that makes his throat tighten and his heart pound while he drifts and braces his feet against the tiles; moves as fast as he can against the weight of the water to grab Johnny where he's sinking slowly. Hands tucked under lax arms. Chest to back. Feet to tiles, breath burning in his lungs. That same adrenaline coursing through again when he kicks off from the bottom of the pool and brings them both back up, sound and stimuli roaring back in with a rush of blood, water splashing, and Johnny’s coughing wracking his own body and reverberating against his chest. 

“Are you - _pth_ \- okay?” he pants, treading water. Not exactly Baywatch, but he’ll take it. 

Johnny splutters, lashing out, and he’s too busy being glad that this stupid man is breathing to care about being hit in the face. Then Johnny headbutts him, _twice,_ and his goodwill evaporates. 

“Stop - fighting me!”

“Fuckin’ - ‘Russo -” 

“Shut up and _swim,_ ” he barks into his ear - and for once, Johnny listens. Gives a little halfhearted kick or two, and lets Daniel manhandle him into a rescue position without slapping him again or trying to thrash out of his arms. 

_In a goddamn pool_ , he thinks to himself, exhausted and irritated in equal parts. _Lifeguarding in a backyard pool._

Those seconds spent pulling him out flick past like time skipped, adrenaline speeding the moment and tightening his jaw until it aches. But he drags Johnny out - with considerable effort and stifled huffing - to drop him sodden and limp on the patio, washed up and washed out. 

“Shit,” he repeats, catching his breath with his hands braced on bent knees. 

When he turns to check on Johnny he finds him passed out again, head lolling and an ominous kind of wheezing starting up in lieu of normal breath. 

“Don’t you dare die on my patio,” he grits, reaching over him and rolling him onto his side, like he’s seen in rescue training seminars over the years. “ _Asshole._ ”

His heart rate picks back when Johnny stays still and silent. It looks _wrong -_ he’s used to seeing him tensed, either his shoulders or his jaw set, his fists balled and feet braced. Seeing him relaxed to the point of looking limp is enough to make him crouch down, one hand hovering over Johnny’s chest. 

_Are you okay? Johnny, come on, talk to me, tell me to piss off -_

It dances on his lips for about five seconds, until Johnny coughs, groans and rolls over onto his front with his stupid - _alive -_ face mashed against the patio stones. 

“How can you not swim?” he barks instead, soaked and bristling and, _sue him_ , absolutely, soul-shakingly relieved. “Aren’t you a California kid, or whatever?”

“‘Runk. Tired,” Johnny mumbles back. 

“You were _drowning._ You’re too drunk not to drown?”

“Drownin’s for pussies.” 

“Do you realise how _absolutely_ insane you are?”

Johnny groans into the wet stone, and he sighs. Passes a hand over his face, _breathes_ in search of an internal balance that seems unreachable _,_ and lifts himself back to his feet to start pulling Johnny up off the patio he’s lying on like a dead, boozy fish. 

Nothing else for it. And he’s _trying_ to be the bigger man. After Robby, and the tournament - it’s about all he’s got to stand on. 

“God, you’re heavy,” he grunts, straining to pick up the dead weight of him. Lawrence is only, what, a couple inches taller? But he feels like he’s made of brick, solid and reeking against him. “Come on, stand up.”

Johnny wavers, dripping over the stone tiles, and lumbers forwards before he can steady him again. He looks bedraggled, and horrifyingly drunk. He’s also wearing the expression of someone who’s snorted chlorine water up his nose, screwing up his face and tilting his head forwards, back, forwards again like he’s trying to shake loose the alcohol, the pool water, and the whole experience of being fished out of it. 

Then he turns around. 

“Ah -” eyes crinkling at the corners, half-slapping the side of Daniel’s head, “- look, still curly. There you are.”

“What are you even talking about?” 

Johnny keeps prodding at his hair like a kid petting a dog too roughly, without coordination, and he jerks back with a glare that goes ignored. It looks like he’ll be able to stand on his own, and Daniel risks stepping away and releasing him for the sake of avoiding a drunk Johnny Lawrence sticking a finger in his eye.

Johnny pouts - actually _pouts,_ and stumbles back towards the porch light. 

“No, the poolhouse,” he whisper-shouts, catching Johnny by the arm and directing him away from the kitchen entrance. “You’ll wake everyone up if I bring you inside, dumbass.” 

Fumbling for the light switch takes a few seconds with his left arm tight around Johnny’s waist, hefting him along and pushing him towards the bathroom section. Johnny goes agreeably enough - or he’s just too out of it to protest - and sits down heavily on the toilet lid once Daniel lets go of him and quickly looks over his head for blood. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, snagging a towel from the hooks lined up on the wall and tucking it around his own shoulders. “Wait here, you understand? _Here._ I’ll be back in a minute, tops.”

Nobody’s sitting at the counter with a raised eyebrow to greet him when he slips back in through the kitchen door, closing it with infinite care. All three of them have that ‘ _well, what have_ you _been up to’_ expression held like a finely tuned instrument - a lucky inheritance for Sam and Anthony. It's always served Amanda well, after all.

The lack of reproachful eyes or questions don’t stop him from holding his breath as he sneaks upstairs, past Amanda’s room and towards his own.

It might be one of the first times he doesn’t feel a pang at the division. 

How is this his life? What karmic havoc is crashing over him, to wind up with Johnny Lawrence caterwauling outside his house in the early morning, and promptly falling into his pool drunk off his ass as soon as he comes tearing out to the back? And now he’s stuck taking care of the idiot; whether he’s breathed in a load of water, given himself brain damage, or hopped straight along to alcohol poisoning. 

He sucks in a long, irritated breath over his open drawer, hands braced on the top of the dresser as he lets it go. 

“One night,” Daniel mutters to himself. “One good deed. Come on.”

*

Johnny’s bent painfully over the sink, retching, by the time he slips back inside the bathroom with a spare tracksuit bundled over his arm. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, dropping the bundle of clothes to the toilet lid and hurrying to Johnny’s side. 

The sounds coming out of his - rival, nemesis, whatever - are nothing short of pitiful, and he grimaces as what looks like a whole lot of pool water followed by surprisingly identifiable pizza splatters into the basin.

What’s he even meant to do? His hand hovers awkwardly where he would have patted anyone else’s back, or moved to hold back their hair. He’s not sure that Johnny would appreciate it. Actually, he’s pretty sure he stands a chance of getting vomited on deliberately.

The stench of alcohol is strong even after their dip in chlorine, and he holds his breath while leaning over Johnny to start the tap on a low pour, washing most of the remnants of bile and vomit down in a pretty disgusting swirl. Good enough. God help him, he’s _not_ about to pick chunks out of the strainer basket tonight. 

“Hey.” He nudges Johnny’s arm, insistent. “Is it all up?” 

“Ugh - _hrk -_ ” 

“Yeah. Okay,” he agrees hastily, stepping well back and wrinkling his nose as the next wave hits Johnny. Hard.

Bent over the sink like this, his spine bows. The muscles on either side of it look strong, clear through the plastered material of his shirt. The henley he was wearing is down by the toilet in its own little puddle, and the blond hair on Johnny’s arms stands up like he’s freezing. 

He’s got the kind of physique born of manual labour and actual work; instead of the ripped definition of a gym rat. Function over form. It’s easy to see where a layer of fat would normally sit over Johnny’s gut and thighs - easier again to see that he’s lost weight, probably recently. Like he needs a good meal or ten, a few weeks of rest to fill himself back out again. 

Daniel sighs, and starts edging forward again as the tremors die down. 

The last retch is weak, less of a projectile-type deal and more of a dribble. Down Johnny’s mouth and out from the corners of his lips like blood, but pale and watery and acidic, tracking down his chin and following the line of his jaw. Catching in overgrown stubble, dripping slowly without so much as an attempt at spitting on Johnny’s part to clear the last wave.

He winces, wiping at his own mouth self-consciously. 

Johnny’s eyes are squeezed shut; and the water running down his forehead from his wet hair makes it hard to discern between pool water in his lashes, or his eyes watering from the burn. Or - 

He shakes his head. As if _this guy_ would cry over falling in a pool and making a mess for him to clean up. More chance of California freezing over. It’s a sorry sight, all the same - one that makes it really, really hard to stay furious with him. 

“Here, clean yourself up,” Daniel urges more gently, drawing closer. “You look gross. C’mon, wash it off and you can use the shower to clean up.” 

Johnny’s still not moving. Just - _drooped,_ vomit on his face and wet clothes clinging to his back and thighs, dripping into the scattered puddle of pool water around his feet. 

He worries his lower lip between his teeth, inching forwards. Opens his mouth - but what the hell is there to say?

Screw it. He closes the distance, cups his hand under the running water - reminded, oddly, of helping a young Sam and then Anthony wash their teeth in the bathroom mirror - _no-o, by myself, Dad, I don’t need help!_

He can feel Johnny’s breath on his wrist. 

Johnny doesn’t stop him while he takes his shoulder from behind, steadying him and shuffling closer. Neither of them look at each other. He doesn’t speak or argue when Daniel uses the running tap to wash the vomit off his mouth and chin with cupped handful after handful of cold water, waiting for Johnny to breathe between each pass of his hand dragging down and rinsing him clean. 

The only response is a hitch of breath and a stiffening of Johnny’s back while he leans over him awkwardly, the front of his left thigh pressed warm against the hamstring of Johnny’s right.

The scratch of stubble on his palm is completely different; as is the bulk of Johnny’s strong shoulder under his hand. The quiet, too - no giggling or squirming around, fussing over the indignity of it all. 

Just the running water and Johnny, silent but for his laboured breathing. Stock-still while Daniel leans over him and presses his wet palm over chapped lips again, wiping down carefully with the fall of the clean water and the shape of Johnny’s chin. Beneath his jaw, that soft submental area stubbled over and bobbing against his fingers when Johnny swallows around nothing. 

Bending and craning his neck down to check on Johnny shows him corded muscle along tanned forearms; two calloused workman’s hands gripping the sides of the sink. Heat colouring his ears pink under sodden hair, that same blush creeping down his nape underneath the collar of his wet shirt. 

He would have sworn to anyone who’d listen that Johnny Lawrence doesn’t know the meaning of shame. But - here it is. Or just one of the effects of his apparent ambition to destroy his liver via Coors-and-vodka. 

“Right,” he says, uselessly. Just to break the silence. 

He turns off the tap, wiping his hand off on his shirt, and looks up into the mirror in front of them both. It reflects them well, even in the dull light; his concerned face over Johnny’s right shoulder, his scarred knuckles facing forward where his hand curls over the left one. And Johnny - swallowing again, the bob of his throat caught in the light - holds still, staring at the picture they make in the mirror, blue and bloodshot eyes flicking up to his.

“Feeling okay?” 

“Mm.” 

Johnny looks shell-shocked, and queasy. But a little more alert, and just about agreeable enough to be shepherded towards the shower and the fogged glass door closing it off. 

“No, don’ need -”

“You smell like a brewery,” he grunts, and shoves Johnny in. Tries - _tries -_ not to take any satisfaction in the winded noise Johnny makes when he thumps against the tiled wall, catching himself feebly and too slow. “Trust me, you need it.” 

Daniel reaches past him - around those broad shoulders, it takes a full lean of his upper body - to turn on the shower, and pushes the door closed before Johnny can splutter and lunge at him. Unless he’s a complete idiot - or again, just piss-drunk - Johnny’ll figure out that he should take his clothes off while he’s under the spray of warm water, and spare Daniel the embarrassment of trying to strip him out of soaked jeans and a shirt. 

There’s quiet for a moment - a low groan echoing, the hiss of water and patter of it falling - and then two wet consecutive thumps that sound like waterlogged clothing slapping to the tiled floor. 

Relieved that _that_ hasn’t become his newest responsibility, Daniel sits down on the lid of the toilet by the towels and folded clothes to wait. 

God, he’s exhausted. 

He buries his face in his hands - one wet, one dry. Jesus, washing vomit off Lawrence’s face like he would for a little kid? It has to be the lack of sleep. That’s it. He could - should have just passed him a cloth, or pushed him into the shower to wash the mess straight off, in with the rest of the water beating down, artificial rain under the noise of the second, stronger stream hitting the tiles -

His head jerks back up. “Are you pissing in my shower?” 

A grunt. 

“God, you’re disgusting.”

“‘S efficient.” Sounds like Johnny’s sobering up, if he can actually form words. Vomiting most of it up probably helped, along with two water-submersion shocks. “Unless y’want to help hold my dick steady.” 

“Oh, shut up.” It’s become an automatic phrase tonight, and he almost grins before biting it down and rolling his eyes instead. 

There’s not much to do but wait, and he fiddles with the label on the towel. Then the ties of his spare sweatpants. Once Johnny’s finished up, getting him into clothes could still be an issue - maybe getting him to eat could help, or at least to drink some water. And then Daniel should be able to guide him into the passenger seat of his car, try to figure out where -

A squeak, skin slipping on wet tiles. A solid _thump_ , clattering bottles dropping to the ground for water to drum against louder - and a groan, delayed and drawn out.He lunges forward, heart pounding. Christ, first Johnny nearly dies in his pool, and now in his shower? It’d be a hell of a plot to frame him for murder, and he wouldn’t put it past a Cobra Kai to do it all just to stick it to him.

The door squeaks open on a badly sealed hinge, and he blinks past the steam to shove his arm out and offer a hand back up. Or to stem catastrophic bleeding, whichever comes first. 

At some point in the rush to help, he’d kind of forgotten the implication of Johnny’s ratty jeans and t-shirt lying soaked through and abandoned on the shower floor. As in, that opening the door would just give him an eyeful of Johnny splayed out naked and half-lying against the shower wall, looking dazed. 

It seems like a massive injustice that anyone could drink as much as Johnny does and still have abs. A broad chest, strong thighs and sparse fair hair, the whole package that’s obviously aged as well as his karate.

He’s also got an unfairly nice - 

No. _No._

“Are you hurt?” he asks, reaching in to offer his hand, eyes stuck firmly on Johnny’s face. Resolutely. “That didn’t look like a soft fall.” 

Johnny waves a hand at his shoulder dismissively - and yeah, he can already see the red mark blooming. That’ll be a bruise by tomorrow, mottling purple and blue over his skin, but it doesn’t look like a fracture-prone spot. 

“Shit,” he mutters, leaning forward with his eyebrows drawn together in concern. “You didn’t hit your head, did -”

Old habits die hard, that much anyone could tell you. Muscle memory - that’s ingrained deep, through years and exhaustion and drunkenness, taking up the background processes of the mind and forming a near-unshakeable foundation. 

Because while Johnny might not be able to stand up unaided in a shower, he can sure as hell grab Daniel’s wrist like a fucking _snake_ and tug him in with a sharp jerk, until he topples into the shower and under the spray, shin slapping painfully against the edge of the shower basin and his forehead nearly colliding with the wall.

“Fuck!”

He catches himself, wide-eyed and breathless, hands planted on the wall over Johnny’s head and his body held up awkwardly, straining. It's nearly painful on his spine, but he’ll damn well deal with it - any alternative is good in his book right now. This is seriously what he gets for offering a little compassion?

“Don’t be an asshole,” Daniel snaps, his foot slipping from under him and dropping him down on one knee - his good knee, a small mercy. it still judders, rattling his jaw, sending a huff of breath out from his lungs. “I’m helping you, understand me?”

In a running theme, Johnny ignores him completely. Stares up at him like he’s baffled as to how they got here; buck naked on his ass in a shower with his back against the wet tiles, and Daniel crouched over him. His bruised hand fisted in the front of Daniel’s top, tugging it taut and dripping water steadily. 

“Hey,” waspish and wet already from the spray, and _fuck,_ he has the right to be annoyed; “I’m not fighting you tonight, _especially_ not with your dick out -”

He freezes. 

Everything does; his attempts to stand, his breath in his lungs. His heart, nearly, before it begins to pound against his ribcage and his mouth falls open. 

Because Johnny’s mouthing at his neck, calloused hands gripping his shoulders in a way that feels less like a ploy to gain leverage; and more like an attempt to pull Daniel down fully to the tiled floor between his spread legs. 

It’s so warm. _He’s_ warm, flushing where hot water spills over his shoulders. When stubble scratches over his collarbone and teeth graze at his trapezius, licking - 

“Ah -” he splutters.

Johnny’s lips press together, and little busses take over from teeth and tongue against his skin, kissing a line up his throat. He’s humming - a tune Daniel doesn’t know and probably wouldn’t identify through the distortion of a drunk’s mouth even if he did - and it buzzes against his skin like a purr. 

“H-hey.”

No response. Just another kiss, on the angle of his jaw - 

Johnny clearly thinks he’s someone else; drunk enough to mistake him for some girl at a bar - _shit,_ he should have taken him to a hospital, if he’s this bad. Spent the next year worrying and wondering about how fucking drunk Johnny regularly gets, how vulnerable he leaves himself. Never had this happen, never wound up knowing what it feels like when Johnny Lawrence moans into the underside of his jaw.

“Johnny,” he croaks, flushed. “John. Come on. It’s _me_.”

A sound tugs up from the man crumpled against the wall of his pool house, pressed against the side of his face. It sounds broken, like a groan or a sob aborted halfway through. Like a man bereft and _wanting._

And Johnny’s tugging him closer, clumsily, a push and pull as Daniel tries to hold their distance. Turning his head away awkwardly, as far as he can. Lifting back, gathering his feet under himself to restore that space, balance, anything. Being clutched, chased, and he doesn’t want to accidentally hurt him or act with _cruelty_ \- but Johnny just nuzzles into his throat instead, cold nose against the underside of his jaw and warm tongue licking up the tendon that stands out in sharp relief with the twist of his head. 

“Johnny, look, I’m not - it’s Daniel. Daniel _LaRusso_ , you hear me?”

And -

“I know.” Johnny sounds like he’s choking up, lips pressed over his pulse. Sniffing, inhaling deep and shaking under him - from the cold, it has to be - as his breath shudders. Daniel can feel it. “’S always you. Fuck-” 

_That_ hits him like a punch to the gut, and he only vaguely feels Johnny’s hand slide down to his hip, curling around it and clutching him close. Still shaking - and it feels more like terror than chill. 

“Johnny,” he says again, throat tight and his face burning red. He barely registers the drum of the water on his back, not when the heat of Johnny’s body under him feels like a flame held too close. Johnny’s gay? Mr. Masculine, king of cars-and-beer-and-posturing, sitting here and mapping out his hip with his fingers, snaking under the wet cling of his shirt? “Hey - you’re drunk. You’re going to be pissed in the morning.”

“Please -” 

It’s so small, broken into the space under his jaw, Johnny’s head and soaked hair cradled in the curve of his neck. 

“You’ll kill _me,”_ he points out, cajoling, putting his hand down to try and unclamp Johnny’s fingers from his hip, where his thumb brushes back and forth over the sliver of skin left bare. It feels - 

_No._ He is not about to admit that it feels good, like heat burning under that tiny, back-and-forth stroke. 

“No,” Johnny says, slurring and almost aghast, eyes wide beneath the water running down his forehead from his hair. “No, wouldn’t.” 

“Stop,” he finally manages to get out, gaining purchase on the slippery tiles. “I said stop, okay? Just - wait -”

 _Wait?_ What the - oh, screw it and shelve it. 

He manages to guide both of Johnny’s hands back to the base of the shower - even prevents himself from lingering too long in the pose it requires; pinning Johnny’s wrists down to his sides and leaning over him, one knee between his legs. They’re both more than washed clean by now, and Johnny sits quietly while he reaches up and fiddles with the dial to turn off the shower spray. 

At least Johnny’s decided to stop kissing him in favour of glowering. A drunken mood swing? He’d take it, if it means he doesn’t have to examine his own words too closely. At least not right now.

He sighs, and steadies himself where he crouches in front of his naked sometimes-rival, bare feet on wet tiles and wet clothes sticking to his skin. Enunciates clearly, like he would for a little kid. “Are you okay? Hungry?”

“Not a stray dog,” Johnny grunts, and something about the familiar pissy tone settles him more than he can describe. 

He _needs_ normalcy right now. 

“Yeah,” he agrees, tight-chested, flushed, and struggling to make sense of any part of the overload in his head. “Yeah, sure.” 

*

“You eat like a toddler, you know.” He twists off the top of the water bottle, passing it down for Johnny to take from his hand. “I’m amazed you don’t have scurvy. Ever see a doctor?”

Talking helps. Lots of talking, rambling about the water, shower pressure, the towels, chlorine, and bottled water versus tap. It’s like getting plopped right back into his teenage years, before he managed to tamp down the mumbling and talking to himself. 

Because, he knows, if he stops he’s going to start thinking. And talking, probably, and imagining things he really, really shouldn’t. Better to grab the used towel and start soaking up the water all over the place from Johnny’s awkward, stumbling route out of the shower and towards the pile of folded clothes. 

“‘m sorry.”

He wets his mouth, occupies his hands with mopping up the water dripped across the floor of the poolhouse. Turns his face down, hiding the flush that’s creeping from his cheeks to his chest. “Huh?”

Johnny’s holding the peanut butter sandwich in both hands - the only thing that had appealed to him, apparently, once the seeds on the crust were picked off - and staring down at it with that same wan expression. 

“Grabbing you. Saying - stuff. Didn’t mean to freak you out.” 

Honestly? Daniel’s just glad that Johnny didn’t sober up and start swinging at him. If anyone would fly into a fury at the idea of showing emotion or any kind of vulnerability, it’s him. But this quiet, worried remorse isn’t a whole lot better. It’s like Johnny thinks he’s disgusted by him; quailing and waiting for a tirade. And still pretty inebriated.

“You’re okay,” he says, putting the towel aside and putting his hand back on Johnny’s shoulder. Quickly, but not fast to the point of panicking him. “It’s fine, Johnny. I know you’re wasted. You don’t have control over what you say, huh? Probably won’t remember a thing in the morning - I’m not going to hold it against you, and we’ll be right back to regular. Yeah?” 

Johnny doesn’t meet his eyes. Daniel’s not sure if he could deal with it if he did. 

“Eat it,” he says again, gently. “Promise, you’ll feel better. And I’m going to need you to tell me where you live, too, so the more sober you can get...”

He barely catches Johnny’s grimace, face downturned. God, he makes some picture with blonde hair sticking up from a hasty towel-dry, sweatpants ending halfway up his shins. Earlier, he found it hard to maintain a simmering anger. Now, it’s hard to reconcile the image of a bully with the man chewing slowly and sitting on a deckchair. The man who - at some level, in drunken confusion and probably nothing more - has _feelings_ for him. 

His face heats at the recent memory. 

Or it’s just some extension of their rivalry - hate turned lust? Another kind of competition?

There’s a thought - and what a fucking thought it is. He works his tongue through his teeth, and turns back around to let Johnny eat in peace, bundling wet clothes up into a bag. They’re going to end up absolutely rank unless Johnny has a working washer he can put them into - he should probably bring detergent, just in case. He’ll get a grumble about _charity_ for it, sure, but he’s sunk deep into it by now. Maybe some painkillers -

Daniel cranes his neck back around, still on his haunches as he mops at the edge of the shower. If Johnny chokes now on one of those massive bites, it’d be the one of the greatest ironies of his life, he’d better keep an eye - and so ends up looking at half-bare shins and blond hair lying flat on the skin, leading up into strong calves. Defined calves to thicker thighs, spread like it’s automatic to plant his feet apart, take up stable ground and space like he owns it, pushy even in his most vulnerable moments. 

Maybe Johnny would fuck like he fights. 

What? 

“ _Jesus_ ,” he breathes sharply, biting his tongue and barely stopping himself from slapping himself across his own face. His knuckles squeeze into the towel and nearly wring the water right back out. “God, no. No-” 

Smacking his head on the wall feels like a good idea right now. Or having a drink himself. Anything but that intrusive thought sitting smug in his brain, unavoidable and pulling him back in like a glue trap with snapshot ideas, scenarios -

 _No._ Absolutely not. They’re not even friends, he seriously doubts if Johnny is even out, that pseudo-confession was something he shouldn’t even have heard, and he _has_ to be reading way too much into all of it. Being vain. Otherwise - it’s just unbelievable. 

Insane. What even - no. No, no, definitely not. 

“Done,” Johnny mumbles, around what looks like half a sandwich crammed into his mouth. 

“Good!” It bursts out of his mouth as he turns around - loudly, frenetic - and Johnny winces and leans back wrinkling his nose and deepening the crease between his brows. “Um. Ahem. Good - I’ll drive you home, if that’s okay. Can you give me the address?”

*

He does get that address. Eventually, and after a lot of water bottles shoved away until he refilled an empty beer bottle with water and watched - with only a little amusement - as Johnny drained it happily.

The car ride is peaceful, against all odds. Johnny spends most of it slumped against his window and angled towards Daniel in his seat, blinking hazily at the lights they pass, some of it dozing, and a decent remainder grumbling at him to “treat his car like a lady.”

He chuckles, flicking his eyes over to the passenger seat. “Johnny, you do know what my job is, right?”

“Mm - little weird banana trees.”

“That’s not even -” He bites on his lip, grinning. “What’s weird about _bonsais_?”

“It’s freaky. They’re like - really big trees that shrank.”

Johnny sounds genuinely disturbed, and he manages to hold out for two seconds before snorting into laughter. It’s got that edge of _what the fuck_ hysteria where everything seems more hilarious than it has any right to be, his hands clinging to the wheel while he winds down into little amused huffs. 

He clears his throat, tilting his head over freely. “Ah, sorry. Just the way you said it, you know, I thought that too -” 

“You’ve a nice laugh,” Johnny informs him, matter of fact. 

“Ah -” he fumbles over his own tongue, turning his head sharply back to the road and the taillights of the car in front of them. “Thank you?”

Johnny just stares at him, loose and oddly soft-looking. Maybe it’s the too-small clothes, or the ridiculous state of his hair. More likely, the absence of the usual chip on his shoulder and the hard, wary look to his eyes. Amber lights scroll up and off his face as they pass under them, storefront neons illuminating the slope of his nose and the line of his cheekbone before dipping the hollows back into shadow. Lots of shadows. Too many sunken, undernourished hollows. 

He licks over his suddenly dry mouth. “So -”

Johnny points silently at the green light they’ve been sitting under.

“Oh! Shit, must have...” 

This time, Johnny’s the one who laughs. Croaky and a little slow, almost lazy. It’s - nice.

*

It’s unsettling, how similar Johnny’s home is to the first one he knew in California. Down to the peeling doors and the suspicious twitch of curtains, the rusted screws in the steps they ascend slowly, together. Johnny’s feet drag and hit a low step; he mutters his apologies in a low voice and keeps climbing, conscious of the weight of Johnny’s arm thrown over his shoulders, and the heat of his wrist where Daniel holds it. 

“How’re you meant to get home?” Johnny asks, automatically walking towards his own door - number 2 - and taking over from Daniel as the leader. 

“Taxi, or something.” Carrying Johnny’s a hell of a workout, and that door looks like a beacon right about now. “Standard walk of shame.”

It’s barely out of his mouth before he winces. Ugh. That sounds - not good, and more than a little insensitive. And more than a little like he’s making fun, which he does _not_ want to do right now. Sure, Johnny’s an asshole and he’ll say that any day of the week - but rubbing his stifled sexuality in his face? That’s just a dick move, regardless. 

He readjusts his grip, catching Johnny when he stumbles again on his wavering path. 

“Why‘re you nice to me?” 

He bites the inside of his cheek again, worrying at the scarred flesh. _Jacked rents, the committee, the kid, the fight, the dojo, so much shit -_ “I don’t think I’m that nice.”

“You - helped me t'night.”

“I wasn’t going to let you _drown._ And I absolutely wasn’t planning on leaving you soaked in vomit, or sleeping overnight in my poolhouse. Anyone would do that.”

He almost thinks that Johnny’s decided to let it go, a metre from the door and into the pool of flickering light just above it. Almost. 

“You didn’t hit me,” Johnny mumbles, head drooping like he’s losing the lucidity he gained back after his rest in the car. 

His chest clenches again, an imaginary and no less oppressive weight manifesting around his neck. “What?”

“You didn’t hit me when I cried on you. ‘N when I tried - tried to kiss you.” 

“Jesus, Johnny -”

“’s nice of you.”

“Scraping the bottom of the barrel, aren’t we,” he mutters, and fishes in his pocket for the single key that was in Johnny’s car. It fits into the lock stiffly, and he pushes with his foot to get it open. “Really? Someone hit you before?”

“My fault,” Johnny slurs, shrugging loosely against his side. “Bein’ a pussy. Deserve it.” 

“You don’t deserve - god, you’re so drunk,” he says, throat aching, sympathy warring with the familiar irritating balm of - well, Johnny being Johnny. Outdated insults and all. “Let’s get you to bed.”

The apartment is small. A bit like the one he lived in back in the day, all awkward design and plaster cracking. Probably less asbestos, all of the little leaks fixed up only to be covered over with a fine layer of dust, marks on the walls and carpet, and one particularly weird picture of the US flag overlaid with an eagle. _Lived in,_ his mom would say brightly. Or would have said, back in the day. But she’s more accustomed to comfort now, a little less prone to sugar-coating. As she _should_ be - it’s just that she’s a little quick to try and pretend that she’s always known nice cars and a summer flat by the sea, designer clothes and private pools. Maybe it happens to everyone who makes that jump in status - he knows, in an uncomfortable part of his gut, that he’s guilty of the same. Maybe that was the case for Johnny and his own mom. 

“Here - shoes off, come on - _no,_ I’m not robbing you.”

They pick past empty cans and bottles, a worn couch, and a door left ajar to the bathroom - Daniel veers to drop the bag of damp clothes into the sink, narrowly avoiding thumping Johnny’s forehead head against the doorframe - before he continues down the tight hallway and nudges the bedroom door open; Johnny heavy against his side. 

“C’mon - here we go.”

Daniel nearly has to lift him, grunting. But Johnny gets the idea as soon as his knee knocks against the bedframe and registers as familiar, sitting on it heavily, flexing his feet and staring at the mess of the duvet like he’s confused as to how he made it all the way back home. 

“Okay,” he huffs, stifling a yawn. “You’re good now, yeah? Great. Let’s just wipe this one off the record and, uh, try not to repeat it.”

He’s barely set foot towards the door before he’s being tugged back, faltering. He frowns, turning his head back. “I’ve got to call -”

“Stay?”

 _Jesus-fucking-Christ_ , he thinks, followed fast with his mother’s indignant voice from his teenage years. _Daniel! The Lord’s name!_

How else is he meant to react, when Johnny struggles up on his knees, fighting his own weight and his loose muscles to kneel with sheets twisted under his legs, holding Daniel by the sleeve. On his knees in the island of his bed, looking - 

Daniel bites down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. 

Nobody should look that lost, and look up at him like that. He’s not - he doesn’t know what to do with this. How to answer or evade, or settle the coil in his gut at the idea - that awful, vindictive and proud feeling that he rejects with every part of himself but for that dark corner - of Johnny kneeling for him. 

“No.” 

Johnny’s face crumples. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and puts his hand on Johnny’s shoulder, right where it fits so confusingly well. “But I can’t.”

“What’s wrong with me?” 

From anyone else, it might have sounded offended. Emphasis on the _me,_ puffed and irritated by rejection. Johnny sounds like he’s _asking_ , and hoping for a real answer. Staring up at him like he has to know, as if he’s got all the solutions tucked in his back pocket, and kneeling in front of him on dirty sheets and a thin mattress will earn him just one. He sounds - small. Smaller than he has any right to. 

“Nothing,” he croaks, and tries not to focus on how Johnny’s eyes water. Redirecting his gaze only sends him to Johnny’s mouth, chapped and bitten raw - and in the end, his eyes are the safer choice. “There’s nothing wrong or - or anything to be changed about you, John. It’s - you’re a good man. I know that."

Johnny sits back heavily onto his heels, torso at an angle while one hand holds him up. Knuckles pressed into the mattress. Light filters in through broken blinds, haloing his hair and patterning the bedsheets. 

“I mean it,” he repeats, softer and no less urgent. “You’re not a loser. You’ve never been one, okay? You’re tough, and you _try,_ and you - you’re having a hard time, but you don’t stay down. Right? I’ve always respected that.”

Johnny’s forehead creases again like he’s confused, head tilting. 

“I don’t -” he bites his tongue. “It’s not you I dislike. I - I _like_ spending time with you, when it’s just us and none of the...stuff. I really do.”

“Then stay.”

Daniel shakes his head firmly, and plants a hand back to Johnny’s chest. _Warm. Solid._ Pushes him down, into his own bed, with all of the resolve he can gather up into his chest and direct to his fist. “Just sleep, okay? Sleep it off, and -” he swallows, “- if you still want me - um, to stay - tell me that when you’re sober.” 

Johnny’s face twists, and he reaches up to wrap his fingers around his forearm. Sliding down dry and warm, almost steady, until his hand rests around Daniel’s wrist and keeps his palm held to his chest. 

“Right? When you’re sober, okay?”

“No - can’t.” Johnny shakes his head too. Keeps looking at him with those damn eyes, throat working like he's trying not to let his voice crack. “‘m not brave. Not when I don’t drink.” 

His throat aches all the more. “What if I wait with you until you fall asleep?” 

It's a compromise that makes something in his chest pang, and for it he's given a slow, timid nod. A slower lean into the mattress from kneeling position, Johnny letting himself fall back against the sad, flattened pillow and the wash of light. And he holds Daniel's wrist tight as he goes, pulling him down with him until Daniel puts one knee up on the bed, follows it with the other in a soft rustle and creak of springs. It’s clear that Johnny wants him close, lying down and close enough to wrap his arms around, to tuck his face into his chest or his neck. The compromise is reached in gentle redirection and murmurs; Daniel sitting up against the headboard, legs out in front of him and Johnny lying down at his side under the barrier of the duvet. 

“There,” he says, and it’s mostly to himself and his thrumming heart.

It’s all vulnerability again, no bravado or hard veneers, when Johnny curls on his side and presses his lined forehead against Daniel’s hip. His hand finds its way to his leg, on top of his thigh and just above his knee, and Daniel works his jaw, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. Any higher would be treading serious lines - which, fair, they’ve already trampled all over - and any lower is just - 

He swallows thickly, and looks back down. 

Johnny’s hand rests there like a thing incapable of harm. Like the only use for those fingers, the rough knuckles and broad palm and strong tendons is to build, and to touch.

It doesn’t stop Daniel’s heart rate from picking up. He doesn’t - didn’t - even like Amanda touching it; the knotted and silvered scars from pins, two surgeries, and his own nails digging into the offending, aching tissue as if to punish the injury itself. 

The images, the feeling - it all overlaps, and he closes his eyes unsteadily, chest tightening. This isn’t romance. It’s not even real lust. It’s just - filling a cavity, sanding the sting out of loneliness. And that’s all he can expect from Johnny.

_Johnny, grabbing his ankle and he knew it was caught, knew that he was done when he felt the lurch in his stomach, saw sweat and wide blue eyes flicker down and that elbow slammed into his knee right before he twisted - it hurt - and crumpled into the mat, burning, trying to roll away and put distance between those hands and his ruined, burning leg and the yelling, roaring -_

John, drunk and quiet and broken, curled into his side after pleading with him to stay. His hand, warm through cotton and curved over his quadriceps tendon like it belongs there. Like he’s looking for comfort in the heat of him, and giving it right back in every warm, rough exhale, every stroke of his calloused thumb, up and down. 

_It_ hurt _, and sweat poured into his eyes to sting them further, and it hurt more than he’d known an injury could._

It feels _good_ , and his throat spasms while his eyes burn and grow damp.

Opening his eyes again takes a minute; spent slowing his breath and his heart. Looking back down at Johnny’s worn face - half-hidden by the dark and the sheets - takes no time at all. Nor does lifting his own hand, paler in the light, and setting it down on that stupid, pretty blond hair. Self-consciously. But all the same, he does it, and doesn’t shy away. It’s easier in the dark, in the faint delirium of three hours total sleep. 

All logic would agree to him taking Johnny’s hand, and setting it down in the rumpled sheets that he hopes were actually bought in this shade of off-grey. They’ll have to separate, anyways, and it might as well be now.

Logic loses to something else. 

Something quieter, softer, and far more pervasive; something that argues against the once-immutable fact that he _can’t._ Not Johnny. Not with any man who’s made something in his chest heat up, made him stumble over his words or stare for a moment too long; like he should only ever have done with the pretty girls and beautiful women.

Johnny’s always been a ropy, twisted scar that tugs and seizes. It hurts, mechanically. But the real pain comes from knowing that the feeling has lasted, decades, and even the ache and flares of that scar don’t dissuade his body from carrying it with him. 

And Daniel sits there, a silent sentinel to a man he’s spent too long fighting - with that warm, weary hand on his knee. 

*

“Dad? Dad!” 

He peers out of the kitchen arch window blearily, arms braced on the counter as he yawns large enough to pop his jaw. He’s too goddamn tired for this. So help him, if there’s another random thing she’s forgotten in the house before school -

“Mm?”

Sam pivots on her heel, ponytail swinging, and holds up something dripping pitifully. The pool net lies soaking the patio at her feet, and she holds whatever she’s fished out with two fingers, as far as possible from her body. “Whose phone is this?” 

Fucking Johnny Lawrence. 


End file.
